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I know who it is before I turn around—her voice is familiar enough after all this time—though I don’t know what she’s talking about. “Kyla. You’ve got a lot of nerve saying that to me when I’ve been trying to get a word out of you for weeks.”
Her nose wrinkles, her brows knitting together. “What are you talking about? I’ve texted you a bunch of times.”
“I didn’t get them.”
“Oh, bullshit.” So she’s not in the mood to play nice. To think, I was actually in a good mood before this. “I think we both know the real problem, even if you aren’t willing to admit there’s a problem. It’s him. He’s the one doing this.”
“Would you stop, please?” The back of my neck feels prickly, and I know it’s because people are staring. “You’re making a scene.”
She ignores this. For all I know, she enjoys knowing she’s attracting attention. “Sorry if I think it’s more important to make sure my friend isn’t being abused by some psycho.”
“Okay, you’ve really lost it.” I try to laugh it off, I really do, but the sound is hollow. “Things couldn’t be better. I mean that. And if you were really my friend, you would know already. You wouldn’t play these little games to screw with my head.”
She touches a hand to her chest and puts on her most surprised expression. I’ve seen it before, usually when she knows she got caught lying and wants to fake innocence. She’s good at that. “Me? I’m playing games when the psychopath you’re living with is the one pitting you against everybody who cares about you?”
“You’re the one who started a fight the day I moved out.”
“And you know what he did as soon as you weren’t there to see or hear us?” She pauses, eyes getting wider, her breath hitching like there’s something big and emotional on its way out. “He barely stopped short of hurting me. He turned into a total maniac.”
I’ve given her a lot of leeway over the years. I’ve let her talk me into things I didn’t want to do because it was easier to give in than to argue. I’ve dismissed the many, many times she acted thoughtlessly, telling myself she was too good a friend for our relationship to suffer because I felt slighted.
But this? Now she’s gone too far. “Admit you can’t handle me being happy. Really, truly happy. Our friendship only works if you can push me around and tell me what to do. Now, I’m moving on, and you’re threatened.”
Her face goes dark red before her mouth twists in an ugly snarl. “I’m threatened because he threatened me. He scared the hell out of me, and I had to watch you leave with him, knowing what he’s capable of. And no matter what you think, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you because I can’t stop worrying.”
“Well, you can stop for good. You don’t have to worry about me again.”
Her face falls, and for a second, I can almost believe she’s genuinely hurt. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m saying it.” My drink’s waiting, so I make a grab for it before turning back to the girl who used to be my best friend. “If you can’t handle me being happy, you’re not a friend, and you never were. Don’t bother trying to reach me again—if you ever did.”
“You’re being stupid right now.”
“Yeah, well, considering I ever thought you were my friend, I guess this isn’t the first time.”
I ignore the outright stares of the other customers as I march past them with my head held high. Let them think what they want. They have no idea what I’ve been through.
And now I know for sure there’s no hope of me paying attention in yet another class.
Christian stares at me like we’ve never seen each other before once I’ve finished giving him the recap of what went down at the coffee shop, and he’s speechless with surprise.
Eventually, he finds his voice. “You know I would never do that. Right? I would never threaten a woman. Especially not your friend.”
“Of course, I know that.” I throw my hands in the air, feeling helpless. “But I had to tell somebody what happened, and you’re the only person I can talk to right now.” Since Cynthia’s still MIA. I can only hope the police take her disappearance more seriously than they took my stalker case.
“I’ll always be here for you to talk to.” He pulls me into a tight embrace, sighing deeply once my cheek rests against his chest. Is it any wonder I feel the way I do about him when his touch is like magic?
“I thought she was my friend,” I murmur, eyes closed. “How could I have been so wrong?”
“We don’t always see what’s right in front of us, especially when we don’t want to see it.” He sounds like a man who knows what he’s talking about. Not for the first time do I remind myself how little I know about him. His feelings, his goodness, sure. But his past is a mystery. I don’t have the first idea how many times he’s been hurt or felt cheated by somebody he cared about. I hate thinking about him being in pain. Who in their right mind would ever hurt him?
